


Rock Bottom

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set a few months after the events of His Last Vow as Sherlock finally hits rock bottom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock Bottom

**Author's Note:**

> Please inform me of any obvious typos etc.

It takes a lot.

To get to this state.

Things have to be really, truly, awful; and as he sucks in a breath that burns its way down his throat like bleach, and reaches a trembling hand towards the object he feels staring at him from the coffee table, he knows.

He’s seen rock bottom before – hit it more times than he can count. He thinks he’s there now.

He’s at least half way there, for sure.

***

“John!”

Mary’s voice, a little grating at this time of night and after a whole (too long) seven months of marriage, makes the former army-doctor wince. He drops his spoon, tearing his gaze away from his late night bowl of cereal to squint at his wife. Her face is drawn, her eyes pinched and her lips pursed in a way that immediately forces John into alert mode, he’s up and out of his chair before he even registers his voice (still cool, still projecting the perfect picture of calm) rushing out a, “What’s happened?”

The woman’s left hand falls to her belly, her large (disgusting) lump of flesh, and she gasps, bending over in a fashion that gives off the stench of both pain and melodramatics. She gasps a shaky, “Labour,” before pushing past John to sit in his still-warm seat.

The soldier in John sparks with delight, before the older (wounded) version of himself nods and sets off to find the car keys and bag prepared weeks ago for today.

***

Sherlock’s fingers refuse to stop trembling as he runs them over the cool glass, and he tightly clenches his left hand as if it would make up for the sins of his right. Finally, he gathers up the courage to press down on the central button – illuminating the screen of his mobile phone.

A few well-practised manoeuvres have John’s name on his screen, only instead of flicking right for ‘new message’ he flicks left for ‘call’.

The dial tone starts up, and he licks his lips nervously as he brings the phone to his ear.

***

“Boss?”

It’s been a long night. A _fucking_ long night, and Greg really would do anything to go home to his cosy double bed and memory mattress right now. Fall into bed and, if he’s lucky, lie in till next Sunday: at least. This case is killing him and Sherlock’s been on French leave for the past few days, leaving Greg alone with two seemingly impossible locked-room murders.

“Sally.” He sighs, looking up from the cup of rapidly cooling coffee he’s reluctant to drink, and feels something inside of him give up a little at the look she gives him. He takes a swig of his coffee and scowls as the crap Scotland Yard produces seems to stick to his oesophagus on its way down.

“Show me what you’ve found,” he groans, as he forces himself back onto his feet.

***

There’s a break on the end of the phone, and then a harsh mechanical beep before –

_Hi. Er. You’ve reached John Watson’s voicemail. If it’s an emergency you can always try Mary, or if not just leave a message. Or a text. I’m probably better with texts._

– voicemail.

Sherlock throws his phone down on the sofa next to him and pulls his hands through his hair with such force tears prick at his eyes.

Or, at least, he likes to think that’s what’s causing the tears.

***

Mary pulls her knees up as close to her body as she can as she gets into the car, and John quickly shuts the door for her before skipping round the bonnet and jumping into his side. Mary lets out a few dramatic puffs of air and John spares her half a glance before turning the key in the ignition.

A thought flickers across John’s mind and he frowns, before shaking his head and pressing his foot down gently on the accelerator.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he’s not sure Mary would appreciate it if he were to pull over and take a call right now.

***

The detective mutters to himself for a moment, trying to get his transport somewhat under control again, before reaching for the phone and gripping it so hard red marks form under his knuckles.

He scrolls down to _L_ in his contacts.

He hits ‘call’.

***

“Hooper?”

The pathologist’s armful of papers hit the floor with a loud crash, accompanied by a frustrated little sigh and followed shortly after by Molly herself hitting the floor to gather the sheets as quickly as possible. The senior doctor standing over her quirks an eyebrow and tries again.

“Molly Hooper? The pathologist?”

“Yes,” the brunette sighs, standing up quickly and blowing a loose hair out of her face, “That’s me.”

The balding doctor nods and folds his arms, “You got a Mr Holman in there?” he asks, with a nod towards the morgue. Molly, seeing where this is going, lets out a silent scream and dumps the remainder of her files on the nearest desk.

“You want me to rush the results?”

The doctor grins, before turning around and waving a hand casually as he heads back up the stairs.

“You’re a star,” he calls behind his back, as he goes in search of his coat, and his keys, and his home.

***

_Lestrade here. If it’s a personal matter, you’ve got the wrong number. If it’s Sherlock, I’m busy, and not actually your babysitter. Go bother… John. Or something._

Sherlock does have friends. Moriarty, of all the people, had shown him that.

He does have friends.

It’s just that they’re all busy right now.

***

There’s been another one. Greg doesn’t care anymore, he all-but screams a string of curses as Sally drives him to the new crime scene, the exhaustion and stress driving him virtually insane. As the car pulls to a stop besides an old school he steps out, staring at the dark building, before throwing up his hands.

“I’m calling him,”

Sally raises an eyebrow, folding her arms as she approaches behind him cautiously, “Is that really-”

“I’m calling him.” Greg repeats, before sticking his hands in his back pocket. His heart skips a beat or two, and he instead shoves his hands into his empty coat pockets.

No phone.

He swears, again, before slamming the car door shut and storming into the building.

***

_You’ve reached Mary’s mobile – I can’t reach the phone right now but go ahead and leave a message after the beep. Or, it it’s urgent, try John instead._

***

“Well, I’m done for the day. See you guys tomorrow?”

Molly smiles to herself as the cadavers respond with silence. She rolls her eyes at her own sleep-addled delirium and bins her gloves, before switching out the lights and heading up the stairs. She only lives a few minutes’ walk away, and in all honesty she’s scared if she goes looking for her coat again she’ll bump into someone else in need of urgent results.

***

_Hi. Er. You’ve reached John Watson’s voicemail. If it’s an emergency you can always try Mary, or if not just leave a message. Or a text. I’m probably better with texts._

His index finger flicks over the red ‘end call’ key. He pauses, thinks, and just as he starts to put the phone down and decide this really _isn’t_ productive he hears the incessant tick of the clock hanging from the wall and scowls, hitting ‘call’ again.

_Hi. Er. You’ve reached John Watson’s voicemail. If it’s an emergency you can always try Mary, or if not just leave a message. Or a text. I’m probably better with texts._

One more time?

_Hi. Er. You’ve reached John Watson’s voicemail. If it’s an emergency you can always try Mary, or if not just leave a message. Or a text. I’m probably better with texts._

Just one more.

_Hi. Er. You’ve reached John Watson’s voicemail. If it’s an emergency you can –_

Sherlock growls, before jumping up onto the sofa and hurling his phone at the opposite wall.

He desperately wishes Mrs Hudson would come up and complain about the walls, but she’s visiting her sister for the week, won’t be home till Thursday at least.

He’s alone.

***

As Molly lets herself in to her flat, she hums a tune softly to herself. She drops her keys in the bowl by the door, and then tugs the elastic band out of her hair. Her cardigan lands somewhere near the arm chair and, blearily, she makes her way to the bedroom. Her pyjamas are in the wash, both pairs, and her bed looks cosy enough, so she simply toes of her shoes before crawling in and switching off the light.

She sighs a contented little sigh as her head hits the pillow, and sleep follows shortly thereafter.

***

One new message(s).

_“Sherlock? Are you there? I know it’s a ridiculous hour but you hardly ever sleep like a normal person so I assumed… Never mind. Listen, mate, I could really use your help on this case. Seriously. Give me a call, yeah? Or, I don’t know, just turn up. Like you always do. I don’t really care just… We need you. So get your lazy ass over here, alright?”_

***

Two new message(s).

_“Sherlock, did you, ah, did you call me last night? Sorry. I was… Well, Mary went into labour. Yeah. She – well. It’s a girl. Listen, I know we haven’t spoken much lately but... Give me a call? Sometime? Or stop by. I don’t know what you’re like with kids but, ah, she’s tiny. Not much you can… do. Right?”_

***

Three new message(s).

_“Three locked room murders. Come on. Don’t try and pretend you’re not_ dying _to get in on this one.”_

***

Four new message(s).

_“Mate, I’m coming over there. I’m serious. You aren’t sulking your way out of this one.”_

***

Five new message(s).

_“You know, I’ve just, ah, five missed calls. You rang me five times? In one night? You never call.”_

***

Six new message(s).

_“Are you alright? I thought maybe you were avoiding me because of Mary and the baby but, ah, Greg said you’ve been AWOL a while now?”_

***

Seven new message(s).

_“Sherlock! Hi! Hi – er – it’s Molly. Although you already know that, of course. Sorry, that’s a stupid…  stupid, such a – anyway. I was just calling to see if you’re alright. Just, well, no one’s heard from you in a while and, I know you’ve got that whole ‘alone protects me’ thing going on but- ”_

Eight new message(s).

_“Oh, so, apparently there’s a limit on how long a message can be? Sorry about that – god I’m probably annoying you and, you’re not answering so you must be busy but… Just, call me. If you need someone. Because I’m here. And no one likes being alone, not really. So call me – I promise I’ll be here. If you need me, I’m here. Okay?”_

***

Sherlock’s phone, screen smashed and battery lower than ever, buzzes away in the corner with the ninth call in the past twenty four hours.

It’s funny, he thinks, how everyone’s suddenly so eager to talk to him.

It’s funny, he thinks, as the bullet heading for his brain redefines rock bottom.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/kudos are appreciated.


End file.
